


On the Seventh Day

by willowswhiten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Destiny, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-12 02:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19938655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowswhiten/pseuds/willowswhiten
Summary: After the not-apocalypse, something is different. It's a brave new world, and the patterns repeat those a certain angel remembers from the very Beginning.Or, the soft, happy ending I dreamt for my boys.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale is the first to notice, even though they were both there the first time around, and really, the signs couldn’t have been clearer.

The first day after the Apocanope, there is light.

It spills into his bookshop. It is the most ludicrously lovely day, and everywhere Aziraphale looks, there’s light.

It shines off the hubcaps of Ubers in central London. It glints from the lenses of tourists’ cameras. 

In Hell, there is none, but he is calm. He relaxes in a bathtub and mocks the demons with the trappings of humanity; he asks for a rubber duck.

He feels radiant with joy. He smirks at Michael, who believes she is so superior, and whose eyes express pure panic when she sees him, wearing Crowley’s skin, reclining in holy water.

He is sure, in a way he hasn’t been in so long. He is sure that he has saved his serpent’s life, and he is sure that the question in Michael’s eyes has a simple answer.

_ Does God love you so? _ Michael wants to scream it. Jealousy eats her up. In her eyes, a demon has been granted the gift of invulnerability.

_ Yes _ , Aziraphale wants to yell at her, with all of Crowley’s sass and confidence,  _ She loves him so. And why shouldn’t She? _

Aziraphale believes in a loving God. There have been moments of doubt in his life, but in the end, he believes.

She loves them. She sent them the prophecy.

Maybe, Aziraphale thinks as he sits on a park bench and waits for Crowley, he will forgive Her for casting his demon out of heaven.

Because,  _ really _ . What an over reaction that had been.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he glances up at the glorious, bright sky, and gives a cloud an apologetic look.

And then Crowley is beside him, wearing Aziraphale’s skin, and when they trade back, he sees his own besotted expression reflected back in blinding light from the demon’s sunglasses.

They eat lunch, and the silverware sparkles, and the champagne glitters in its flute. Crowley’s joy looks like sunshine across his face, and all his long limbs fold into puzzling shapes as Aziraphale tells stories, the demon’s entire body angled closer, all while trying to appear uninterested.

For desert, Crowley orders him a crepe suzette before they’ve even had a chance to see the menu, and its light burns bright blue when the waiter sets it on fire.

Crowley smirks at him, and the fire is reflected back by his glasses.

‘Sweetness and fire,’ Crowley says, and doesn’t need to elaborate.

Aziraphale’s ears are already red.

‘I was there, you know,’ Crowley continued, nonchalant. He sat back in his chair, leaning so far Aziraphale felt a flutter of panic.

‘Where, dear?’ Aziraphale asked absently, tucking in.

‘Monte Carlo, Cafe de Paris, 1895. Someone told me the crepes were good.’

Aziraphale’s blush deepened. He remembered. Just before their fight over the holy water, Aziraphale had been reminiscing about Paris, and had told his demon that the crepes were even better in Monte Carlo.

He’d invited the demon to join him, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. And Crowley had looked so sad, and had told him about his plans.

They hadn’t spoken again for nearly a century.

And Crowley had, apparently, dealt with this by slinking across to the continent for pudding.

That was… adorable. Aziraphale beamed at the demon around a mouthful of orange liqueur and perfectly spongy crepe.

Crowley’s smirk faltered, but he pressed on, leaning forward to slide his finger through the syrup on Aziraphale’s plate.

‘The Prince of Wales was there, with this pretty girl named Suzette,’ Crowley reminisced. ‘And they were hogging the crepier’s attention. So I set their plates on fire.’

Aziraphale snorted. ‘Crepes Suzette,’ he chuckled. ‘Why is it, demon, when you try to be petty, it turns out so  _ good _ ?’

And Crowley had smirked again, and licked syrup off his finger with a forked tongue, and that had made something in Aziraphale feel  _ light _ .

The second day was less subtle on the part of the Almighty.

Aziraphale liked to sleep. He didn’t need to, not strictly, but the quiet of the darkness pleased him. It was like a little echo of the before-times.

He dreamt of rare books and baked goods, more so now than in centuries past. He wondered if he dreamt more, the more human he became.

After their lunch, the demon tried to leave. Aziraphale ignored him, as pleasantly as possible, and linked arms with him.

His heart pounded in his chest, but the fear of being without the demon was greater than the fear of rejection. He’d been through too much in the past week to let his serpent slither away.

‘Come on,’ he said, gently. ‘I’ve more champagne at home. I believe young Adam thinks it’s all adults drink - my fridge is positively stuffed. My cupboards are full of HobNobs.’

Crowley has hesitated, but then, his body had gone languid.

‘I like HobNobs,’ he said. ‘I invented digestive biscuits, you know.’

‘I know, dear.’

They’d drunk champagne from teacups, and caught up, and considered their next move. By the time they were both tipsy, it felt very natural to grab Crowley and haul the punk-rock scarecrow up to the room where Aziraphale kept his aerie.

Crowley hesitated at the door. He had lost his glasses at some point - perhaps when they’d played Trivial Pursuit? - and his eyes blazed.

_ Light _ , Aziraphale thought, stupidly.

‘I want to sleep,’ was what came out of his mouth, emphatic and childish. ‘Come here so I can keep an eye on you.’

Crowley’s frown was deep, and he skirted the edges of the room as Aziraphale settled. The angel had never gotten the hang of human beds; he preferred his nest of blankets and pillows, just as he’d done since The Beginning.

‘I can get you a proper bed,’ Crowley said.

Aziraphale threw a pillow at him and miracled himself into some soft flannel pyjamas.

When he lifted a finger to do the same to Crowley, the demon hurriedly raised his hands.

‘No need, no need. I’ll be blessed if I’ll wear anything you deem suitable bed attire.’

Aziraphale snorted, but it died in his throat when the demon was suddenly in black silk lounging trousers, his pale torso on display, his feet quite ridiculously bare and vulnerable on the Persian rug.

Crowley watched his face. When Aziraphale swallowed the lump in his throat and said nothing, the demon appeared beside him, arms folded behind his head.

‘I don’t sleep,’ Crowley said, nonchalant. ‘Maybe I’ll interfere with your dreams.’

Aziraphale smiled sleepily at him, and snuggled down into the warmth. ‘That would be nice.’

He fell asleep to Crowley’s chuckle, and woke in his arms.

‘Angel,’ Crowley said, his voice sleep-roughened, ‘where are we?’

Aziraphale miracled away his hangover. The sky above them was blue and lovely.

Crowley turned his head, and his grip tightened around Aziraphale almost to the point of pain.

Almost, but not quite. And he was warm.

Aziraphale relaxed. It was strange, certainly, that they were outside, and their blankets were gone. But it was also quiet, and no one seemed to be trying to kill either of them.

‘We’re floating,’ Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale yawned. ‘I don’t think so. It’s solid, beneath us.’

‘There’s  _ nothing _ beneath us.’

At that, Aziraphale sat up, and looked around them. Sure enough, they were suspended on what  _ felt _ like a solid surface, but there was nothing there. No shimmer of glass, no aura of magic.

Below them, a cloud drifted past, but the air wasn’t thin. It felt like a pleasant afternoon.

There was a slight breeze.

Crowley hauled Aziraphale back against his chest and hissed: ‘Don’t go anywhere! I can’t sense where it ends.’

‘It’s the firmament, dear. The  _ raqia _ ,’ Aziraphale said, realisation and surprise on the tip of his tongue. 

‘What the ever loving  _ fuck _ ,’ Crowley said. Aziraphale petted the hand that rested on his stomach.

‘Please don’t hiss in my ear. It tickles.’

‘Angel. What is  _ happening _ .’

‘Do you remember the second day?’

Crowley stilled, understanding. 

Those early days had been an administrative nightmare from Aziraphale’s perspective. He could only imagine it was the same in Hell - he didn’t blame Crowley for not making the connection.

On the second day, God created the  _ raqia _ : the barrier between Earth and the Heavens.

It hadn’t been a solid barrier in millennia. At first, it had literally been a way for everything to be sorted into neat little categories.

A cosmic drawer divider. Once the mountains rose high and the humans started trekking up them, it had been phased out, replaced with a gradual decrease of oxygen. In the fifties, the order had even come from on high to let humans chuck whatever garbage they wanted out into the stratosphere. God wanted them free-range in the universe, apparently.

Aziraphale didn’t see the appeal, but he thought it rather adorable that the humans were so fascinated by the cosmos, and understood it so little. They were like cats who enjoyed watching YouTube videos of fishing.

Aziraphale wiggled free of his demon’s embrace and investigated around them. The firmament was only about two metres squared.

Beyond that, the wind rushed, and Aziraphale’s hand cut through the air, throwing him off balance.

Crowley grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back. Aziraphale could feel his panic, could feel his heart beating.

‘It’s alright, dear,’ Aziraphale said gently. ‘I have wings.’

‘It’s different, taking off from the ground,’ Crowley bit out. ‘I don’t want you to  _ fall _ .’

The way his said that word. Aziraphale looked into his yellow eyes and saw pain, as raw as the day he was wounded.

But it also reminded him of something. ‘That’s a good point,’ he said. ‘You’re with me.’

‘Obviously.’

‘No, you miss my point. You’re with me. Above a patch of what is very clearly firmament.’ At Crowley’s bemused expression, Aziraphale sighed. ‘You’re technically in Heaven.’

Crowley looked horrified.

‘Why is this even here? In the middle of nowhere? And how did we get up here?’

Aziraphale felt that overwhelming sense of  _ calm _ . It was bright, up here in the sunshine.

‘I believe it’s an intervention,’ Aziraphale said peacefully. ‘Shall we see what’s below?’

With Crowley’s arms about him, it was a moment’s miracle to transport them both to the ground.

They were in an English countryside greenspace, standing before a familiar-looking couple.

‘Hello, you two,’ Aziraphale said, surprised and pleased. ‘Miss Device, isn’t it?’

The young witch quickly collected herself and rose to shake his hand, dusting herself off. Her companion, a young man whose aura radiated love and good intentions, looked deeply confused and horrified.

In fact, Aziraphale had never seen him  _ without _ that facial expression. Perhaps it was permanent.

‘Anathema,’ the young lady corrected, shaking Arizaphale’s hand. ‘A pleasure, Mister Aziraphale.’

Her gaze drifted to Crowley, who glared daggers at her. She blinked in surprise at his eyes, unshielded, then looked down at his pyjamas and smirked.

Crowley huffed in annoyance, clicked his fingers, and both he and Aziraphale were fully dressed.

Aziraphale shot him a look. They were, after all, out in the open, even if the pair in front of them had certainly seen worse.

Crowley shrugged and adjusted his sunglasses.

‘I’m afraid I’m not sure I know your young man’s name,’ Aziraphale said.

Anathema smiled. ‘This is Newton. He’s a Witchfinder Private.’

Crowley made a snort of derision which Aziraphale ignored.

‘Did a good job, did he?’ Aziraphale asked, and to his delight, the young couple blushed. ‘Well, all the blessings of heaven upon you both.’

‘And a few from hell?’ Anathema asked, with a coy glance at Crowley.

‘Crowley doesn’t  _ do _ blessings, I’m afraid. And his curses are more petty than anything.’ He glanced around. ‘Are we in Tadfield?’

‘Yes.’ The voice came from Aziraphale’s hip. He looked down and was utterly unsurprised to see Adam and Dog. ‘You  _ left _ ,’ the boy said, accusingly.

‘Just down the road, love,’ Aziraphale said. He dropped to one knee and looked the young man in the eye. ‘Thank you for my bookshop. You put everything back just so.’

Adam nodded. ‘You came back.’

‘And we’ve got you to thank, do we, you little-’

Aziraphale cut Crowley off with a firm look. To Adam, he said: ‘did you create the firmament?’

Adam rolled his eyes. ‘Stupid word. I gave Tadfield a ceiling to protect from meteors and space rubbish.’

Aziraphale glanced at Anathema, who looked bashful.

‘I told him about satellite pollution in orbit,’ she explained.

Newton, speaking up for the first time, said: ‘you really ought to stop giving that child  _ ideas _ .’

Adam glared at him and the Witchfinder snapped his mouth shut so fast his teeth  _ clacked _ .

Adam turned to Crowley. ‘You said you’d stay with me. Help me understand… everything.’

Something softened in Crowley’s furious expression. Aziraphale saw it around his jaw and lips.

‘Did you bring us back?’ Crowley asked.

Adam shrugged and scuffed his toe.

‘Newt and I are moving to London,’ Anathema said, overly casual, after a moment’s silence. ‘We want to find normal jobs and see what life without prophecies is like.’

Aziraphale blinked up at her from his crouch, not making the connection.

Crowley stiffened. To Aziraphale, out of the corner of his mouth, he said: ‘do you like it here, Angel?’

Aziraphale felt lost in all this. ‘Well, yes, of course. It’s pretty.’

‘And you like the boy? You weren’t just… being nice?’

Aziraphale bristled. ‘I’m always  _ nice _ . And he’s a sweet boy, really. He just needs a little… guidance.’

Crowley sighed, long and low. Finally, to Anathema, he said: ‘Two fifty.’

‘Half a mil,’ she retorted.

‘Four.’

‘Four fifty and you can keep my bike.’

‘Fifty grand for your stupid  _ bike _ ?’

Aziraphale rose. He watched Anathema stare Crowley down without an ounce of fear.

He wondered what she saw in Crowley’s aura.

‘Fine. Hell. Bleed me dry. I want you out by the end of the day,’ Crowley said, finally. Anathema bounced happily on the balls of her feet.

‘No problem. C’mon, Newt.’

She dragged her Witchfinder away. Crowley, Aziraphale, Adam and Dog watched them go.

‘Will you take me to visit her in London?’ Adam asked.

‘Why the hell not?’ Crowley muttered. Absently, he tousled Adam’s hair, and the boy flapped him away.

‘I’m glad you’re staying. Both of you.’ Adam took a step away. Aziraphale frowned at him, still confused, and opened his mouth, but Crowley cut him off.

‘Yeah, yeah. Use your words next time, alright? No more summoning us like we’re your little friend, there.’

Adam rolled his eyes and ran off.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley. ‘Did you just buy Jasmine Cottage for me?’

‘Psht. Obviously not.’

Crowley wouldn’t meet his gaze. He was afraid, Aziraphale realised. His demon was asking him a question, in his own emotionally stunted way. 

Aziraphale’s heart felt fit to burst. He flung himself at the demon, and wrapped him in a hug.

‘For  _ us _ ,’ the angel murmured, and while the demon stiffened, he did not correct him.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the garden of Jasmine Cottage blooms somewhat unexpectedly, there is a broken pipe, and Crowley is tasked with re-homing a literal lost lamb.

The third day was ridiculous.

By this point, Crowley had cottoned on to the fact that something - the will of the Almighty or maybe chaos theory? - was recreating The Beginning.

The luminosity of the first day, of Aziraphale and the sun and the fire and the champagne, could have been just Crowley’s relief and joy colouring his vision.

The firmament, on the second day? That was difficult to explain away.

And the third day was where things got messy.

Early on the third day, they discovered that Anathema had left most of the furniture in the cottage. When Aziraphale started making noises about hiring movers, Crowley had hurried the angel inside the building and set him to work making tea.

‘We’ll be here for a while, won’t we?’ Aziraphale reasoned, selecting two mugs from the cupboard. ‘I should fetch some of my things.’

‘Don’t be such a human, angel,’ Crowley groused, and lowered himself into a plush, floral armchair, tossing his legs over one arm. ‘Anything you need, you can miracle over here. Let’s just have some bloody  _ rest _ .’

Aziraphale glanced over, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Crowley’s heart hurt.

‘I thought there was no rest. For the wicked, you know.’

‘I rested just fine in your bed,’ Crowley shot back.

The silence was stiff. The kettle whistled, and Crowley wanted to bite off his own tongue.

_ Idiot _ , he thought.  _ You’re going to drive him away again _ .

‘I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,’ Aziraphale said. He handed Crowley a cup of tar-black instant coffee.

Crowley had invented instant coffee. He opened his mouth to tell his angel, but Aziraphale was on a roll.

‘Have you felt any different, the past few days?’

Crowley raised his eyebrows. A thousand answers danced in his head.

_ Relief, _ he thought.  _ To see you in your body. To know that Heaven will leave you alone. Relief that you don’t seem to be sick of me _ .

‘Because I have, I think.’ Aziraphale blew on his coffee, and Crowley felt a tiny rush of power release from his lips.

Aziraphale was so oddly selective with his miracles. He wouldn’t remember to use them to save his own skin in a French Revolution prison, but he would cool his tea, because that, apparently, was more important than keeping his head on his shoulders.

‘Are you listening to me, darling?’

Crowley’s cheeks heated and he wondered if he could pass it off as anger.

‘You feel different because you’ve only just got your body back,’ he snapped.

Aziraphale looked unimpressed at the outburst. In fact, his expression softened.

‘You got drunk, after I left,’ he said, softly. ‘You took a  _ souvenir _ .’

_ I have hundreds _ , Crowley wanted to scream at him.  _ I have a nail from the Arc and a piece of rubble from that exploded church, even though I can’t touch it without feeling all pins-and-needles. I have the blue, red and white ribbon you wore in Paris and a feather from your wing. _

He wasn’t sure, any more, if he was angry or embarrassed or  _ what _ .

‘I’m sorry,’ Aziraphale said, and Crowley… hadn’t expected that. He blinked at the angel.

‘For what?’

Aziraphale looked down into his tea. ‘Every time we’ve parted ways, I’ve always known you’re  _ somewhere _ . Even if you hated me. You were safe, on Earth, running rings around your demon colleagues and taking credit for human nature.’

‘I did more than that,’ Crowley protested lameley.

He  _ should _ have told Aziraphale about the coffee.

‘My point, love, is that I left you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.’

Crowley glared down at the black surface of his drink.

It bubbled from the heat in his hands.

‘Crowley.’ Aziraphale rarely used his name, but when he did, he said it with weight. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful.’

‘You’re the one who lost their body,’ Crowley managed. ‘You’re the one who suffered.’

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment. ‘You couldn’t have stopped it, you know. It all happened so fast.’

Crowley shot to his feet. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he lied, furious.

Aziraphale’s eyes met his.

Crowley didn’t know what to do in the face of such sorrow, and his anger wilted like an un-threatened orchid. He was at Aziraphale’s side in a moment.

‘Oh, hell, don’t cry. I can get your books for you? Or… a biscuit?’

Those were the words that came out. What he  _ meant _ was this:

_ I didn’t mean to shout at you. I don’t want to think about the fire. I don’t want you to remember being hurt and losing your body. I don’t want to think about how I wasn’t there to protect you. _

Aziraphale sniffed and Crowley wanted to howl.

‘I can’t bear to think of you,’ Aziraphale said, and Crowley stiffened with horror. ‘I can’t bear to imagine you, knowing you were too late.’

And all at once, Crowley was boneless, and Aziraphale’s head was against his chest.

‘I’m sorry, my love,’ Aziraphale said.

And that was different, too. Aziraphale called him  _ love _ and  _ darling _ and  _ dearest _ just as he’d always done, just as all his foppish, ridiculous gentleman’s club friends had done in-between gavottes. 

He never called him  _ my love _ .

‘It’s alright,’ Crowley said, and the truth felt like embers on his forked tongue. ‘It’s alright, angel. You came back.’

And at that, Crowley’s phone rang.

He snatched it out of his back pocket and glared at the display. Aziraphale pulled back, blinking back tears.

‘Who is it?’ the angel asked.

‘It’s Warlock,’ Crowley said. He answered the phone and easy as breathing, his voice became lighter, adopting the crisp Edinburgh accents of his alter-ego. ‘Hello, my little hellbeast. How are you?’

He shot Aziraphale a questioning look, and at the angel’s soft expression, took his permission to stand and walk to the other side of the room.

‘Well, dear, have you told your father that you’d like to see him more? No, not with words - haven’t I taught you anything? You’re still in the desert, aren’t you? I’d suggest a snake in his briefcase.’

Aziraphale chuckled and reached out his hand.

Crowley scowled. ‘Francis would like a word, dear. If you’d rather I slap him away and keep you all to myself, I won’t mind.’

At Warlock’s insistence, he handed the phone over to the angel, whose own accent changed easily to that of the erstwhile Brother Francis.

‘Hullo, luvie,’ Aziraphale began, only to be cut off by the boy. ‘Aye, we’re both fine as fair weather. Married life agrees with your old Nanny, no matter how much she gripes and grouses.’

He continued chatting with the child - some nonsense about how snakes didn’t  _ like _ being locked in briefcases, nor did fathers enjoy unexpected reptilian surprises - and Crowley felt deeply unsettled.

At the time, it had seemed the easiest lie to tell the boy: Nanny Ashtoreth had lured the gardener away from his holy orders, and they were leaving the Ambassador’s employ to get hitched.

Now, he wondered why Aziraphale had gone along with it. Why he’d allowed the child to believe holy abstinence could be so easily cast aside, why he’d supported the idea that when Warlock called one of them for guidance - which the lonely little boy did with frequency - he was essentially coming to them both.

Aziraphale had always supported Crowley’s co-godparenting of the child, and Crowley did not understand why. There was the ‘neutralising’ they’d both signed on to do when he was born - each trying to undo the other’s work - and then there was being blithely, merrily supportive of Warlock having a direct chat-line with a demon bent on turning him to evil.

Crowley was actually fairly sure that Aziraphale didn’t own a mobile phone. If he ever spoke to Warlock, he did it through Crowley.

‘We’ve got a lovely little cottage just down the road from where you were born. Why don’t ye ask yer mam if ye can visit?’ Aziraphale was cheerfully saying. Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale held up one finger, in the universal sign for  _ shush _ .

Crowley’s jaw shut with a snap.

‘There’s a lad down the road, just yer age, and the weather’s always just so. Well, me boy, you just let me know what she says. If she wants to talk to Nanny or I, you know we’re always just a phone call away.’ Aziraphale listened to something, then, to Crowley’s horror, said: ‘we send our love, lad. Take care.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Crowley groused as Aziraphale handed his phone back.

‘Do what, love?’

‘Love! That’s what I mean! I don’t  _ love _ . Don’t send him my  _ love _ .’ Crowley said the word like he was allergic.

Aziraphale smiled at him. ‘You blush when you lie, Crowley.’

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but something outside the window distracted him.

‘What the  _ hell _ ?’ he asked, and marched to the front door.

Outside, the road had turned into a mudslide-like river of the sort normally reserved for the tropics. The sun shone, the birds chirped, and Jasmine Cottage was completely surrounded by water.

And its gardens had gone completely wackadoodle.

It was late summer. Apples were sour and fat on the branches of the trees, bees were sluggish, and lambs were sheep.

Except, apparently, at Jasmine Cottage.

The cherry tree was in full, pink bloom, extravagantly dripping petals onto grass that, overnight, had grown thick and tall. In between the blossoms, nonsensically, grew hundreds of cherries so rich and dark they were almost black. The little herb garden under the kitchen window looked like a jungle. The wild strawberry bush by the foot of the garden was so heavy with scarlet fruit it lay flat to the ground and looked like a spill of blood along the footpath.

There was a lamb asleep under the apple tree in the western corner of the garden. The apple tree that somehow bore both a glut of sweet-smelling white flowers,  _ and _ a bushel of very ripe, very red apples.

Crowley moved towards the sleeping sheep, dropped to a crouch, and inspected it. It opened one ovine eye, regarded him without interest, and went back to sleep.

Crowley stood just as Aziraphale joined him, slightly out of breath.

‘Goodness,’ the angel said. ‘Where is that sheep’s mother?’

‘Angel,’ Crowley growled, ‘look around you.’

And the angel did, and it was… good.

It was beautiful. Everything smelled like  _ spring  _ and  _ harvest _ and  _ plenty _ on the tip of Crowley’s tongue.

And Aziraphale, surrounded by all the green and goodness, looked perfectly at home.

He looked as he had when Crowley had been Crawly, on the day Aziraphale had given away his sword and shown the demon that although Aziraphale had not questioned the Almighty, had not  _ fallen _ , he was a different sort of holy. He was a different sort of angel.

He found ways to be kind. When it didn’t serve him. When it could actively hurt him, and the order from on-high was cruelty. He found loopholes and vagueries and opportunities to be so deeply  _ kind _ that it turned Crowley’s apathy into something else entirely.

Something wholly inappropriate for a demon.

On that first day, Aziraphale had given away his holy weapon, and he had sheltered Crowley beneath his wing, and something in Crowley’s chest had gone:  _ oh, yes. You are fascinating. _

‘Let the earth put forth grass, herb yielding seed, and fruit-tree bearing fruit after its kind, wherein is the seed thereof, upon the earth,’ Aziraphale said.

‘The water is a bit much.’

‘We should probably be grateful She didn’t plunge the whole of Great Britain into the ocean to prove Her point,’ the angel replied.

When he turned to look at Crowley, Aziraphale’s eyes glowed. Not with power, but with something else, and Crowley fought an ineffable urge to kiss him, then run away.

‘On the fourth day, lights in the Heavens,’ Aziraphale said, excited. ‘Then… was it man, on the fifth?’

‘Sea creatures,’ Crowley said curtly. ‘So we’ve got giant calamari to look forward to, I’m assuming.’

‘Ah, yes. Never been my forte.’

‘You get motion sick,’ Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale thought. ‘The sixth day is creatures of the earth, and mankind.’

‘I am  _ not _ dealing with any more infant humans. We already have more than we ever signed on for.’

‘Why is this happening just to us, though?’ Aziraphale mused. He stooped and scooped up the lamb, which bleated pitifully before falling back into the sleep of the innocent cradled in the angel’s arms. ‘What is She trying to tell us?’

‘The firmament was all Adam. Hell knows what sort of powers that kid has.’ Crowley sniffed. ‘I’m not at all sure God has anything to do with it.’

Aziraphale adjusted the lamb in his arms. He turned back towards the house. ‘I have faith,’ he said, pleasantly.

Then, as he brushed past Crowley, he did something insane.

He pressed his cool, dry lips to Crowley’s cheek. And before Crowley could re-start his brain, the angel said: ‘I’ll get this one a bottle. Be a dear and ask around the local farmers, would you? The Them might be willing to help.’

And then he wandered back inside, sheep in hand, leaving Crowley as though he hadn’t just upended the demon’s world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Third Day: 
> 
> And God said: 'Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear.' And it was so.
> 
> And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters called He Seas; and God saw that it was good. 
> 
> And God said: 'Let the earth put forth grass, herb yielding seed, and fruit-tree bearing fruit after its kind, wherein is the seed thereof, upon the earth.' And it was so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sins are exchanged, and there are cats.

The waters receded by the afternoon of the third day - broken pipe up by the church, someone told Aziraphale. 

Crowley had returned, pursued by four children, to retrieve the lamb, at around 3pm.

‘It’s Farmer Smith’s lamb,’ the little girl - Pepper, if Aziraphale remembered correctly, had announced. ‘Last one of the season. She’s been looking for it.’

Crowley picked the animal up. Aziraphale felt oddly bereft without it, and he wondered if the demon noticed, because he hesitated.

‘Won’t be long, angel. Put the kettle on.’

Then, he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles that  _ burnt _ , and turned on his heel and left, the children following him like ducklings.

The angel watched them go, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. Alone in the house, he had a moment to process the Divine’s messages.

Aziraphale had never been important in Heaven. God had rarely spoken directly to Aziraphale, and never after his duties in Eden had been completed. 

But this was something. Something so big and strange it made Aziraphale feel like his heart might not survive the strain of what was to come.

So he did something he only ever did when he was alone.

He took a cushion off of the couch, placed it on the floor, and knelt. He clasped his hands, and he closed his eyes.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I know it’s been a while. Sorry about that. I spoke to the Metatron, though. He’s…’

Aziraphale paused.

‘Well. I didn’t care for him overly, but I’m sure he’s absolutely charming. To other people.’

Aziraphale did not lie to his Heavenly Father.

‘I wanted to talk to you about the days, since the… not-apocalypse. They’re like the first days, aren’t they?’

No answer. A breeze blew from the open window across Aziraphale’s face, and a lock of his hair tickled his eyebrow.

‘Crowley - you remember, the one I told you about - he was with me above the firmament.’

The breeze picked up; it was cool on his skin. More hair fell into his eyes and Aziraphale unclasped his hands long enough to brush it away.

‘I feel different, my Lord,’ Aziraphale said. ‘My heartbeat feels louder. My blood feels hot, in my veins. I slept like a human would sleep.’

The window slammed against the wall. Aziraphale opened one eye, and looked at it, thudding back and forth.

He shrugged and returned to prayer.

‘Lord, I have a confession, and you’re not going to like it, but a lie by omission is still a lie, and since the apocalypse, I just…’ Aziraphale tilted his head back, so that his closed eyes look skyward. ‘I love him. I know you know that. You know everything. I’ve always felt my love for him. It took me millennia to realise, because it’s such a  _ human _ thing to feel, but I’ve loved him since Eden. And I’ve always felt your love, Lord.’

The wind was really picking up. In a second, Aziraphale would have to close the window, but he didn’t want to call on God and then run out on Her before he’d even finished his rambling train of thought.

His heart was beating a rapid tattoo in his chest. He had  _ never _ said any of this out loud. Even to an empty room.

‘And now, I feel your love when I look at him. I’m so sure, Lord. You’ve kept him safe. You’ve kept us together.’ Aziraphale paused. Irrationally, he wanted to cry. ‘Whatever new world is being born around us, I don’t want it if he’ll have to leave. I don’t want to be always afraid of what they’ll do to us, in Heaven and Hell. I know you’re trying to be kind, Lord, but I’m so afraid.’

The wind gusted, and Aziraphale was hit in the side of the head by an apple just as the door opened.

‘Angel?’ Crowley called out.

Aziraphale rubbed his bruised temple and stared down at the shiny red apple in his hand.

‘In here,’ he called.

Crowley rounded the corner and frowned at him. ‘Are you alright?’

In a heartbeat, the demon was across the room, helping Aziraphale to his feet.

‘I’m fine, my love,’ Aziraphale said softly. ‘Just a little prayer.’

Crowley shot a suspicious glance at the ceiling. ‘Saying thanks?’ he asked.

‘Asking questions,’ Aziraphale answered with a smile, and Crowley’s lips quirked.

The demon stood so close, his hand around Aziraphale’s arm. Perhaps it was a side-effect of being de-corporealised, but Aziraphale had been impossibly aware of the physicality of his soft human form in the past few days.

He wondered if the demon ran hot  _ everywhere _ , and when his ears went pink, Crowley’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline.

‘You’ve had a weird few days, angel. C’mon. I’ll make the tea.’

Crowley did not kiss him again. He didn’t kiss him as they drank tea and read newspapers from all over the world, trying to get a sense of what had changed, and what hadn’t.

He didn’t kiss him when he followed Aziraphale upstairs, and used his own power to support the angel’s efforts to turn the guest bedroom into a library.

Crowley did not kiss him over takeaway from the only restaurant in Tadfield - an Indian place with remarkable paneer bhuna - which they ate on the floor of the remaining bedroom, looking out at a starless, overcast night.

‘Do you remember the first time you saw stars?’ Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. His glasses were off, at last, his beautiful eyes glowing low in the dim light. He scooped wickedly hot curry into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully before he answered.

‘I was down under when they were made.’

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say Australia hadn’t been created yet, then snapped his jaw shut, realising what an idiot he was. From Crowley’s half-smile, the demon understood his confusion.

‘Do you remember the rainbow?’

‘At the beginning?’ Aziraphale hummed with pleasure and reclined back against the bed. This pressed his side against Crowley’s, but he was too warm and food-drunk to rearrange himself. ‘It was… miraculous.’

He felt like a fool for not having better words, but then, for all he was the supposed bibliophile of the pair, Crowley had always had the sharper tongue.

Crowley leant against him and breathed in deeply. 

The silence stretched and yawned like a cat, and Aziraphale knew his demon well enough to know to be patient, now.

‘You made me glad I fell,’ Crowley said, very suddenly, and Aziraphale’s whole body stiffened. ‘Your face… you lit up like your worry over the sword had never even happened, was perfect. I saw you see your first rainbow. And I was glad of everything that had happened to bring me there.’

Crowley did not kiss Aziraphale.

Aziraphale kissed his demon.

He didn’t even mean to, not really, except how could he  _ not _ ? When they had suffered so much and Crowley had wanted to run away with him, and the worst thing that had ever happened to the serpent worth it, as long as they could meet. As long as they could share as many firsts as the eons would provide.

And Aziraphale leant across to look Crowley in the eye, closed his own, and pressed a kiss to the demon’s lips.

It was chaste. Aziraphale would not have known how to make it otherwise, but when Crowley’s lips did not move beneath his, he pulled back, and looked into eyes that  _ burnt _ .

Aziraphale, in that moment, remembered watching  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ played for the first time, in The Globe. The strange, unspeakable pain he’d felt, not at the end - although of course he’d cried - but when Romeo had kissed Juliet as a pilgrim, his sin on her lips, until he stole it back.

He brought his hand up and cradled Crowley’s face, and saw something there he would not have believed possible until so recently. 

His demon was terrified.

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale said. The demon’s eyes were so bright, so wide, and his hands clenched helplessly at his side. He looked, suddenly, very young. ‘Give me my sin again.’

And then he was on his back, the demon above him, and Crowley’s lips were on his.

The warmth of him was extraordinary. His long limbs twined with Aziraphale’s, and his fingertips were in his pale hair, holding him like a lifeline. His forked tongue tasted of spice.

Aziraphale might not have known anything but chastity, but Crowley understood sin. His kiss was bruising, thirsty, his hips heavy on Aziraphale’s, and it was all so wonderful the angel didn’t know how he could ever let Crowley go.

So he wrapped his arms around his demon, and felt the strong lines of Crowley’s black wings, stretched wide as if to hide them from the gaze of God.

Aziraphale scratched his fingernails between those wings, in a spot he’d never quite been able to reach himself, and was rewarded by Crowley’s helpless gasp.

The demon looked at him with eyes of fire.

‘Tell me to stop,’ Crowley begged, voice low and rough. ‘Call me a bastard. Send me away.’

His demon needed to be evil. He didn’t know any other way to be. 

Crowley needed, as Aziraphale was just beginning to understand, to keep his angel safe from evil.

Crowley had never been able to keep away from Aziraphale, but to the demon, nothing could be worse than somehow marking the angel with his own darkness. Like soot on white linen.

A long time ago, Crowley had listened to the Devil, and it had been soot on white linen. Crowley had been forced into darkness by that touch. Since then, if Crowley held anything sacred, it was free will. Perhaps that was why he liked humans so much.

Aziraphale loosened his grip on the demon’s wings, and for a moment, something shuttered in Crowley’s gaze. He lifted his weight slightly, and Aziraphale cupped his face, forcing the demon to focus on him.

‘I am not afraid, darling,’ the angel said.

‘I thought I was too fast for you?’ Crowley bit back. 

_ Ah _ , Aziraphale thought.  _ I hurt you, then, didn’t I? _

Aziraphale lifted his head. He had always been a fast study; he slanted his lips across Crowley’s, and kissed him in the most un-chaste manner he could muster.

Crowley’s body went from stiff to pliant, and then Aziraphale’s hand was tangled in hellfire-red hair and Crowley’s long, thin fingers pulled the angel’s shirt from his trousers, wrote runes and sigils on the sliver of skin he exposed.

They traded sins through stolen kisses, and they agreed without speaking that they would take this pleasure, and damned be the consequences. They kissed as though they would have a thousand years to devote to the study, and not a moment should be lost.

They slept in their clothes, lying on the floorboards, wrapped in each other’s arms, on their first night in Jasmine Cottage.

And outside, the earth of their little world sang with new life as the third day came to an end.

The fourth day was… remarkably uneventful. 

Crowley woke before Aziraphale, and just lay on the floorboards, staring up at the ceiling.

Aziraphale didn’t snore, exactly. He sort of… snuffled.

Crowley was flat on his back, one arm behind his head to form a pillow, ankles crossed. His angel was curled up like a cat against his side, his head against Crowley’s chest, pale hair tickling the demon’s chin.

The angel was cool to the touch - not unpleasantly. Sometimes, Crowley felt as if he had been burning for thousands of years, and Aziraphale was the only thing that offered any reprieve.

His hand trailed up Aziraphale’s back, and he thought:  _ screw it. _

He pulled the angel tighter against him, and buried his nose into his curls.

Aziraphale smelled of earl grey, old books and fresh air. His body felt soft and whole against Crowley’s, and he made an odd sort of murmur against Crowley’s chest, before returning to deep sleep.

He had kissed Crowley.

Brave, foolish angel. 

Crowley curled into his angel. He brought his knees up, and wrapped him close, and felt Aziraphale wake, stiffen, and relax.

Crowley took it as permission to hold him tighter. He found a place for his face against the angel’s shoulder, and it had been thousands of years of  _ want _ , and now he was allowed to take what he’d longed for.

Any moment, the angel might come to his bloody senses and tell him to stop. Crowley needed to take his chance.

He buried his face against Aziraphale’s cool skin, wrapped himself around the angel, and held on for dear life.

Aziraphale’s sleep-muddled voice was gentle. ‘I’m here, love. I’m not going anywhere.’

Crowley scowled against his throat and nipped it, felt a rush of victory when he tasted Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat.

He muttered something unintelligible, event to himself, and felt Aziraphale chuckle.

Then the angel’s palm was on the nape of Crowley’s neck, and with the lightest pressure, Aziraphale guided him up, and kissed him.

And each time, it was a miracle. Crowley’s body went loose and pliant, and Aziraphale gave a small  _ hum _ of pleasure that made Crowley want to howl.

When the angel’s tongue pressed against Crowley’s lips, he thought his heart might stop.

Aziraphale pulled away, with another  _ hum _ that Crowley felt in the pit of his stomach. The angel yawned, apparently unaware that he had ripped Crowley to pieces and rebuilt him, and smiled beatifically.

‘I feel marvellous. I’d forgotten what sleeping on a hard surface does for my back.’

As if to demonstrate, Aziraphale rolled away from Crowley and stretched.

He looked ridiculous, his formal ensemble hopelessly rumpled, his soft stomach bared for all the world to see.

Crowley rolled over to him and helplessly settled back into the space between throat and shoulder, where it was perfect. Aziraphale’s hand carded through his hair.

‘Doyouwantacat,’ Crowley said in a rush.

‘Hmm?’

Crowley  _ huffed _ . ‘I said, do you want a cat?’

_ This could all end tomorrow,  _ Crowley wanted to say.  _ We could be pulled apart, to Heaven and Hell, and destroyed for our crimes.  _

_ If we only have this, I want to make you happy. I don’t know how, but I want to try. _

‘Not another hell-beast, Crowley,  _ please _ ,’ Aziraphale said, suspicious.

Crowley growled against the angel’s neck. ‘ _ No _ , not like that. The farmer yesterday has a litter of kittens - do you want one?’

Aziraphale pulled away just enough so he could look into Crowley’s eyes. He looked for a long moment, until Crowley was squirming under the scrutiny, and then smiled.

‘Shall we go take a look?’

It was a moment’s work for the angel to rise and miracle his clothes and hair into order. There was a mark on his cheek in the shape of the zipper of Crowley’s jacket, but Crowley didn’t mention it.

Crowley walked through the village with his hands deep in his pockets and his angel’s arm linked through his.

Aziraphale greeted every villager by name. They all responded with mild surprise, but British politeness overrode it, and apparently Crowley’s open distain wasn’t enough to stop the cheery waves and positive comments about the weather. 

Farmer Smith was a handsome middle-aged American woman with short, curly steel-grey hair and a pair of sheepdogs perpetually by her heels like shadows. Crowley led the angel to her kitchen door, and when he knocked, he heard the dogs react.

‘Shush!’ Smith yelled, and they instantly obeyed. She opened the door and regarded the two of them. ‘Mister Crowley. Have you brought me more errant lambs? Freelance shepherding your new calling?’

Her gaze raked over Aziraphale, hanging off Crowley’s arm, and strangely, her gaze softened.

‘Miss Smith,’ Crowley said. ‘We were hoping you still had kittens available for adoption.’

A pause, then, and Crowley had a moment to worry if he’d misinterpreted her offer yesterday. She  _ did _ seem to communicate mostly in sarcasm.

It had been terrifically endearing, in a village bursting at the seams with wholesome innocence, to find a lady who seemed to be made up of equal parts grit and humor.

‘It’s Mary,’ she said, and to Crowley’s surprise, she gave Aziraphale a tiny smile. ‘You must be Mister Crowley’s “angel”.’

Crowley felt his cheeks burn red. He hadn’t realised he’d called him that, yesterday.

‘Aziraphale,’ the angel said, and reached forward to shake Mary’s hand. ‘It’s a mouthful, I know.’

‘A pleasure. Come in, you two. Do you take milk and sugar?’

They followed her into a farmhouse kitchen full of jamjars of flowers and the scent of fresh lemon drizzle cake. Mary gestured to the fireplace, where an old apple crate lined with blankets barely contained a riotous litter of fluff.

Aziraphale made a small, happy noise, and rushed over. Crowley watched, and after a moment, realised Mary was watching him.

He cleared his throat. ‘Black for me. He takes it white, two sugars.’

Mary nodded and set to work. ‘You’re in Jasmine Cottage, right?’

Crowley took a seat at the kitchen table and nodded. He considered all the possible lies, and decided on one that didn’t feel too awkward.

‘My friend came up a few days ago to help get it settled. Aziraphale and I just moved in.’

As the kettle boiled, Mary offered him some slices of lemon cake.

Crowley mourned the death of rock and roll and took a piece, begrudgingly.

‘I heard Adam Young telling his little friends that you’re his godfathers,’ Mary said. ‘That little boy is a wild thing.’

‘He certainly is,’ Crowley replied proudly. ‘Never met a rule he didn’t enjoy breaking.’

Mary chuckled. ‘And you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a consultant.’ No one ever wanted to know more than that.

‘And your husband?’

Crowley stiffened, his attention immediately on Aziraphale.

Who was sitting cross-legged, and was completely covered in kittens.

‘He runs a rare bookstore. Open-by-appointment sort of thing.’

Mary nodded. ‘So, you’re the fun uncle?’

Crowley chuckled. ‘I suppose. He’s the good influence.’

As if summoned, Aziraphale appeared. In his arms he cradled two kittens; one, white with a tiny black smudge over its eye, the other black with a single white sock.

The angel seemed to vibrate with joy, and Crowley couldn’t have looked away if he’d tried.

‘Can we have two?’ Aziraphale asked, eyes shining. ‘They  _ love each other _ .’

Sure enough, the two kittens were wrapped up in each other. They made Crowley think of a yin-yang symbol.

Mary was laughing at him, but Crowley couldn’t possibly blush  _ more _ , so he just cleared his throat.

‘If it’s alright with Miss… with Mary.’

‘Of course. I was hoping they’d be adopted together,’ Mary said smoothly. ‘You boys go sit on the sofa with your babies. I’ll bring you your tea.’

The day passed in a blur, after that. They manufactured miraculous cat supplies, and made an appointment with the local veterinarian.

By silent decree, neither of them said out loud the truth of what they felt.

They cradled two kittens, whose lives had just begun, and who had maybe twenty years on this earth.

Crowley and Aziraphale had had arguments that lived longer than these cats would, even with miraculous intervention. 

But the day was warm, the apocalypse behind them, and they felt  _ human _ in a way neither could describe.

They did not feel the need to dwell on mortality. They had both sleep-walked through millennia - through the  _ thirteenth century _ \- and had experienced whole decades that felt shorter and less important than today.

Aziraphale let the black kitten chew on his fingertip as he read in a beam of sun. Crowley sat on the floor by his side, head leant against him, the white kitten asleep in his lap, and played on his phone.

The sun began to set, and there was a knock on their front door, followed by a child simply bursting into the room.

As if he wasn’t scared, even a little.

Crowley scowled at him.

‘There are shooting stars!’ Adam cried. ‘C’mon! Everyone’s on the village green to see them.’

Sure enough, the night sky was brightly lit, and when Aziraphale bustled Crowley down the street, they watched the sky explode in light and movement.

On the village green, every villager had a blanket, and someone handed the demon a spare tartan rug.

Crowley slumped onto the ground and glared up at the sky. 

‘Lights in the Heavens,’ Aziraphale said, plonking himself on the ground beside Crowley, and completely unselfconsciously cuddling up to the demon. ‘It’s a new world, my love.’

There was that phrase again. Crowley’s heart beat furiously, and his arm was around Aziraphale, protective, as they lowered themselves to lie back and watch the sky.

‘I do, too,’ Crowley snapped, suddenly, after a long moment. He felt his angel turn to look at him, but he kept his eyes on the sky. ‘For what it’s worth.’

‘You do what, dear?’

Crowley took off his sunglasses and sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. When he turned to look at Aziraphale, he did it with his true eyes, yellow, inhuman, and full of everything he was too much a coward to say.

‘Oh,’ Aziraphale said. ‘Oh.’

His smile was bright as starlight, and Crowley wished, to whoever was listening, that his angel would always have a reason to smile at him like that.

Aziraphale leant across and kissed him, sweet, and soft.

Then, he settled back, and smiled up at the sky.

‘I know you do, darling,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve known forever.’

And all around them, the sky fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the fourth day: 
> 
> And God said: 'Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days and years


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are fish, and a gift.

On the dawn of the fifth day, they actually woke in their bed, in proper pyjamas, like proper adults.

Unfortunately, they were woken by four children, who apparently saw breaking-and-entering as a suitable summer-holiday activity.

‘Wake up,’ Adam said. ‘We need your help.’

‘There’s something wrong with the creek,’ the little bespectacled one - Cheese? - added.

‘It’s global warming,’ Pepper sniffed. ‘What are they going to do about it? They’re the  _ patriarchy _ .’

Aziraphale sat upright and considered the children. Beside him, Crowley grumbled and pulled the covers over his head, his beautiful pale spine all of him Aziraphale could see.

‘I told you, Pepper. They’re not like other grown ups.’ Adam’s gaze was intense. ‘The stream is full of fish.’

Aziraphale cleared his throat. ‘Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.’

‘You don’t get it. They’re huge, and there are  _ millions _ ,’ Adam parried.

Crowley sat up. Three of the children backed up at the sight of his unguarded yellow eyes, but Adam just stared him down.

‘Sea creatures,’ he snapped, and turned to Aziraphale. ‘Angel, I thought we agreed to sit out the sea creatures.’

‘Children,’ Aziraphale said, ‘please give us a moment. There are kittens and biscuits downstairs.’

The children seemed suspicious, but dutifully, they trooped away.

‘We need a lock for that cursed door,’ Crowley said.

Aziraphale fought the urge to smooth the demon’s bedhead. ‘We slept like humans again.’

‘Humans would call the police if that little-’

‘Crowley. He came to us for help.’

Crowley grumbled, but swung his legs out of bed, and was dressed in an instant. Aziraphale followed suit.

Crowley looked at him like he’d grown horns.

‘What the hell are  _ those? _ ’

Aziraphale beamed at him. ‘Wellington boots!’

They were yellow.

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘Fine. We handle the sea creatures. But I do it  _ my  _ way. I’m going to make you so much bloody sashimi.’

‘Promises, promises.’

The next twelve hours were deeply messy. The creek ran along the back of Jasmine Cottage, and they had to scoop bucketfuls of fish out of their marigolds.

Aziraphale’s attempts to simply miracle the fish away were totally ineffective.

‘They’re gifts from the Almighty,’ he’d groused to Crowley, feeling useless. ‘She doesn’t do  _ take-backsies _ .’

At one point, Pepper disappeared, only to return with Farmer Smith in tow.

‘Farmer Smith always knows how to fix everything,’ she announced, gesturing at the American, who waved cheerfully.

Mary wore fisherman’s waterproofs and merrily set to work alongside them. She and Aziraphale made for a fairly well-oiled fish-scooping machine.

‘So, Aziraphale,’ she said, scooping deeply lost and out-of-season salmon into a bucket. ‘How long have you two been together?’

Aziraphale looked over, to where Crowley was yelling at a bucket of freshwater crabs.

‘Oh, ages,’ he said. ‘I never thought he’d be ready to settle down, really. This has all been a bit of a whirlwind.’

Mary hummed her agreement. ‘Busy few weeks?’

Aziraphale chuckled. ‘You could say that.’ He smiled at her. ‘And you? What brings a Yank like yourself to Lower Tadfield?’

Mary’s smile was small and knowing. ‘I just fell in love.’

Aziraphale nodded. ‘Were you with the airforce?’

Something strange flickered over Mary’s face, gone as soon as Aziraphale noticed it.

‘I liked the simplicity of war, at one point,’ Mary said. ‘I liked justice, and clarity. I liked the symbolism of it, and the purity of sacrifice.’

Aziraphale understood, and he said so. ‘I was a solider once,’ he said. ‘A long time ago. We both were, Crowley - Anthony - and I.’

She sighed and grabbed a salmon by its tail. ‘What made you leave? Did you lose your faith?’

That was… a strange way to put it. Aziraphale shook his head. ‘I’ve always had faith. I think, for me, it just takes a different form than for my… fellow soldiers. I just decided that I prefer to be kind. When I can. If I can.’

She beamed at him. Together, they emptied their bucket of fish into the tank they’d set up in the trailer she’d brought, attached to her tractor. The plan, apparently, was for her to drive them to Oxford and attempt to sell them to the fishmongers.

‘Were you two together? When you were soldiers?’ she asked.

Aziraphale smiled sadly. ‘It would have been bad for both of us. Even now, our… families don’t exactly approve.’

Mary Smith straightened and looked him dead in the eye. For a moment, Aziraphale couldn’t breathe.

‘I could fix that, Aziraphale,’ she said, and her voice was strange, as though it came from all around him, and not from her lips. ‘What would you sacrifice?’

It took every ounce of strength in Aziraphale’s body to turn and look back, to where Crowley was carrying a small boy - not Adam, maybe the messy one? - under his arm like a suitcase, stomping away towards the creek to doubtless chuck him in.

‘Would you live a mortal life?’ she asked.

And when he looked back at her, she was gone.

‘Yes,’ he said, because he knew she heard him. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Angel!’ Crowley yelled. ‘Help me!’

He had Pepper and Cheese-boy on his back, beating him with small fists to encourage the release of their comrade in arms.

Crowley could lose them all in a second if he wanted to, but instead, he play-fought them, his sunglasses glimmering as he lost control and his snarl slipped into a smile.

And Aziraphale would trade any of his thousands of years without Crowley for this moment.

On the sixth day, God created Man.

Or, to be more exact, She created  _ men _ .

Crowley woke alone in bed, without his angel. He stretched, and glared at the space where Aziraphale should be.

In six millennia, he’d never slept the way he had this past week. He’d never needed to.

Now, he wanted to  _ doze _ .

He wiggled down into the covers and closed his eyes. Below, in the belly of the house, he could hear the kettle whistling, and Aziraphale pottering about, his shoes softly  _ clacking _ on the floorboards.

Crowley sat up, swung his legs out of bed, and pulled on some clothes. It was the angel’s fault that Crowley had picked up the habit of sleep - there was no use trying to sleep without him.

As he descended the stairs, he heard voices. Plural.

He burst into the kitchen to find Aziraphale  _ not _ in mortal danger. He had a cup of tea, and was sharing a packet of biscuits with Mary Smith.

‘Hello, love,’ he said, mildly. ‘Water’s boiled if you want a drink.’

Crowley glared at Mary. She beamed right back. ‘Morning, Mister Crowley. Beautiful day.’

‘Is it?’ Crowley groused.

He busied himself making coffee. Behind him, Aziraphale spoke.

‘Are you sure the biscuits are alright? I can miracle us up something better?’

Every muscle in Crowley’s body went stiff.

‘No need, kid,’ Mary said. ‘I love digestives.’

_ Who is she, really? _ Crowley wanted to demand of his angel.  _ Is she like you? _

What came out of his mouth, instead, was: ‘I invented those.’

He took a seat beside Aziraphale. Mary’s smile reached to her eyes when she looked at him, and Crowley felt an odd warmth settle in his stomach.

Not an angel, then. Every angel but Aziraphale made Crowley furiously resentful, not…

Happy. Mary’s smile made Crowley uncomplicatedly happy.

Weird.

‘I know,’ she said. 

Crowley found himself unable to hold her gaze. Beside him, Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on his back.

Mary watched them. ‘I asked your angel a question yesterday, Anthony J Crowley.’

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. The angel’s blue-eyed gaze was fixed on his clasped hands before him.

‘I’ll ask you now. Your clever little possession trick may have bamboozled Heaven and Hell, but it won’t last forever, and when they realise you are both traitors, they will come for you.’

‘And,’ she continued, ‘I could certainly keep them running in circles, if that’s what you want. I haven’t held my cards close to my chest, boys. I want to give you a chance to be together, properly.’

‘A chance?’ Crowley echoed.

She shrugged. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, Crowley-the-Serpent, but it’s all I can give anyone.’

‘We have free will, my love,’ Aziraphale said. His eyes blazed blue.

_ Which means I could still ruin this, _ Crowley wanted to say. His jaw hurt from clenching, and when he glanced at Mary, she looked like she could read his every thought.

‘Or, you could live as mortals. Both of you. No wings, no miracles, no life immortal. No ineffable plan, and no orders.’

‘Yes.’ Crowley leant across the table, almost knocking over his coffee. ‘That one. Yes.’

Mary chuckled. ‘You’re quick to give up forever, honey. You’re giving up hell - fine - but you expect your angel to give up heaven?’

Crowley looked at Aziraphale. The angel’s eyes were full of tears, but his smile was beatific.

Crowley reached for his angel’s hand, and held it tight.

‘I have faith,’ Crowley said.

Mary nodded. She dipped her biscuit into her tea and nibbled on it, her expression unknowable.

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand.

‘I know how badly I’ve hurt you, Crowley. I know how frustrated I’ve made you,’ Mary said. ‘You know I’m not going to apologise, don’t you?’

He nodded, his mouth dry.

‘I’m not kind,’ she continued. She ate the rest of her biscuit. ‘I think that’s why I’m so fond of you two. You’ve always been so ludicrously  _ human _ . So irrationally kind, even when it hurts you.’

She stood, and smiled at them both. ‘You’ll need to take some time to adjust. Luckily for you, the seventh day is perfect for that. Get some rest, and take care of Adam. He’s a good kid.’

Crowley blinked, and she was gone. He turned to Aziraphale, and took off his glasses so he could massage the bridge of his nose.

It was too early in the morning for this bollocks.

Aziraphale stiffened. ‘Your eyes…’

Crowley flipped the glasses and stared down at his eyes.

His human, hazel eyes. With  _ round _ pupils.

‘They’re lovely.’ Aziraphale beamed, but Crowley could feel him quiver.

He was nervous, and unsettled, and excited, Crowley knew.

But to the demon, there was something more pressing to be determined.

He lunged across and kissed the angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the fifth day: And God said: 'Let the waters swarm with swarms of living creatures, and let fowl fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.
> 
> On the sixth day: And God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an ending, of a sort

Sexual attraction is inconsistent, messy, and intense. Crowley knew this. He had watched, for millennia, fascinated by all things  _ sexy _ .

Sex was also a uniquely mortal passtime. Crowley might be intrigued by it, might read all the banned books and listen to all the saucy music, but he was not mortal.

He’d suspected, that if he were ever to have the chance or inclination, that he would  _ love _ sex.

He thought it when Aziraphale looked at him with the same soft smile, regardless of whether he presented male or female. However he presented, Aziraphale was always unphased. Aziraphale complemented his robes, his tie, his shirt, his moustache.

Aziraphale would say: ‘you look lovely today. New dress?’

Crowley thought about sex when Aziraphale ate ice cream. He thought about it when the angel wore blue tartan pyjamas with rows of neat buttons down the front. He thought of it when Aziraphale ran his hands through his own pale hair, or when they were fighting and the  _ missing him _ was a physical ache.

He thought about it when he heard how the other angels bullied him. He thought about taking every stitch of fabric from Aziraphale’s body and  _ showing _ him how he was better than any of them.

But his desire to do so had never been seconded by his body. He was a student of sexy times who had only ever taken his theory exam.

So, the moment he thought there was a real chance he was mortal, he threw himself at his angel before his brain had a chance to second-guess the impulse.

Crowley had  _ theories _ to test.

Aziraphale made a startled noise and fell backwards off his chair. They tumbled together onto the floor, and Crowley took the chance to straddle the angel’s waist, his hands tangled in Aziraphale’s hair, their tongues tangled.

And…  _ there _ . There it was, so strange and perfect and new that Crowley wanted, irrationally, to cry.

Arousal bloomed in his brain, his heart, his stomach, his groin. He released Aziraphale’s hair long enough to start work on untying his bowtie, and couldn’t resist pressing his hips down to meet the angel’s.

Aziraphale moaned, and he was  _ hard _ , and that felt miraculous. Crowley had  _ wanted _ for so long, to feel evidence of its reciprocation was the best thing in the world.

_ I was so worried,  _ he wanted to howl, and instead, he buried his face against Aziraphale’s neck and sucked a kiss he hoped would bruise. Beneath him, the angel’s hips bucked, helpless.

_ I was so worried I would ruin you. _

‘I chose you,’ Aziraphale said, as though he could read Crowley’s mind. His voice was high-pitched, husky, and Crowley set to work unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Always, I’ll choose you.’

Crowley swallowed, hard, and pressed his hands to Aziraphale’s bare chest. Aziraphale cupped his face in both his hands and pulled him down into a kiss that was…  _ filthy. _

_ You’ve always been a quick study, _ Crowley thought, as he tried to keep kissing even while he stripped off his own shirt.

There were a thousand things Crowley wanted to confess. He wanted to make promises. He wanted to tell Aziraphale that he would be  _ good _ , as much as he could, and he would be patient.

When Aziraphale’s hands were on his skin, tracing the place on his back where wings once grew, Crowley wanted to promise to be worthy. He wanted to tell his angel that he would protect him, as he’d done for millennia.

Aziraphale’s hand went to the waistband of the demon’s trousers, and Crowley’s vision blurred.

He wanted to promise to help with the washing up.

‘Upstairs,’ was what came out of his mouth. ‘C’mon, angel. I’m already a bad influence. Don’t let me ruin you on the kitchen floor.’

Aziraphale’s eyes  _ burnt _ . His smile was wide, innocent, and wicked.

‘ _ Yes _ ,’ he said, eager. ‘Let’s do  _ that _ . Ruin me, love.’

They scrambled to their feet, and Aziraphale’s laughter seemed to echo as they ran upstairs. Crowley caught him, bit his shoulder and pressed the angel against the wall, their lips joint, his hands everywhere at once.

‘I didn’t know,’ Aziraphale said, wonder in his voice. ‘I had no idea it would be like this.’

Crowley chuckled and palmed him through his trousers. Aziraphale yelped, then melted.

_ I knew _ , Crowley thought.  _ I knew you’d be like this _ .

They made it to their bed, just about, and Crowley made short work of their clothes.

‘Would be easier with a miracle,’ Aziraphale laughed as Crowley pulled his trousers off, getting them caught on the angel’s feet.

‘Better this way,’ Crowley responded, and threw himself back down, bare skin to bare skin. ‘I like unwrapping you.’

Once they were both naked, pressed against each other, it took no time at all for the world to come crashing around their ears. First Crowley, whose hips moved with a mind all their own, snapping back and forth, desperate for  _ everything _ ; then, Aziraphale, aching and helpless, no idea of how to relieve the building pressure, let Crowley take him in hand.

They lay, sweating, helpless, together for long moments as their heartbeats returned to normal.

Aziraphale moved first. He held his hand out, above both their heads, and inspected it.

‘Mortality doesn’t feel so very different,’ he said. ‘I certainly don’t feel  _ human _ .’

Crowley watched as Aziraphale focused, and then, he held an apple in his hand.

They both stared at it.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, eyes wide. ‘Darling…’

Crowley grabbed the apple, and with a moment’s thought, it was a serpent, cherry-red and beautiful.

‘What the  _ hell _ ,’ Crowley muttered, but Aziraphale shocked him still further by bursting into tears and wrapping Crowley in his arms.

‘She didn’t take back Her gifts,’ he said, between sobs, as Crowley helplessly batted at his face in an attempt to stop the flow of tears. ‘She just gave us a new one. Mortality. Crowley…’

Crowley stilled. He met Aziraphale’s gaze.

‘Would you please put your eyes back? To the way they were?’

And Crowley kissed him, and neither of them said much of anything for a long while.

On the seventh day, Crowley came downstairs wearing a scarlet cotton summer dress and some white espadrilles, and Aziraphale undid all his efforts by undressing him almost immediately.

Crowley’s hair was longer, his features ever so slightly softer. His sunglasses were small, tortoiseshell cat’s eyes. His skin was smooth.

‘Angel,’ he managed, as Aziraphale set off on a mission to taste every inch of him, ‘I thought we could go out. Maybe to Oxford?’

Aziraphale paused, considered, and licked a stripe down Crowley’s neck to a flat, pink nipple, exposed when the dress was pushed aside.

Crowley  _ hissed _ .

‘That sounds lovely,’ Aziraphale said. ‘You know, there are some wonderful old bookshops in Oxford.’

‘Do you want one?’

Aziraphale chuckled. He wasn’t sure how, exactly, Crowley had come by his money, only that the demon seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in squirrelling it away. Perhaps his brief stint as a dragon in Arthurian Britain had done something to the demon’s brain.

He kissed Crowley, applying all the information he had gleaned in the past few hours. Crowley’s muscles went loose and sweet beneath him.

‘I rather thought we could just be mysterious young retirees,’ Aziraphale said. He took Crowley’s earlobe between his teeth and felt the demon buck, helpless, beneath him. ‘Gentlemen of leisure.’

‘How dare you,’ Crowley murmured. ‘I’m not gentle.’

‘Darling.’ Aziraphale blew on the poor, abused earlobe, and the cool air made Crowley moan. ‘I told you, you blush when you lie.’

‘How in hell am I supposed to  _ not _ blush?’ Crowley groused.

‘Let’s look in all the bookshops,’ Aziraphale confirmed, and slid his hands up Crowley’s legs, beneath that wicked little dress. ‘Let’s get tea and scones.’

‘I thought…’ Crowley swallowed hard, and when Aziraphale touched him  _ there _ , determined to demonstrate the skills his demon had taught, he gasped. 

‘Yes, love?’ Aziraphale chuckled, happy beyond belief, and so pleased with himself he thought he might just melt.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s head and kissed him, desperate and wanton. ‘Let’s get married,’ he said, in a rush.

Aziraphale’s hand stilled. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Not in a church, or anything. Fuck. Gross. No.’

Aziraphale’s brain was short-circuiting. ‘Gross?’

‘Yes. We could go to the registrar’s office and do the paperwork. Post the bans. Or, you know, Gretna Green? Or something? Unless… do you want a party? I throw  _ great _ parties.’

‘Since when do you believe in marriage, Crowley?’

Crowley went still beneath him. His smudged-lipstick lips went tight, and Aziraphale ran a finger down his cheek.

‘I’m not going to leave, my love.’

Crowley took off his glasses. Aziraphale rolled off him - he needed his full brain working on the nuances of the demon’s inner monologue - and looked into Crowley’s helpless, lovely eyes.

‘I can be a real bastard,’ Crowley said.

‘Yes, dear.’ Aziraphale kissed his exposed shoulder, then the tattoo on his cheek. ‘And I have loved no one but you, all my unending life. I will love you until the sands in our hourglass have all fallen.’

‘Whatifitsnotenough.’ Crowley whispered it, the words run together, as though he half-hoped the demon wouldn’t hear it.

Aziraphale was used to this method of avoiding feelings, and caught every syllable.

‘I will talk to you,’ Aziraphale promised. A vow on the livingroom floor felt less than holy, but it would have to do. ‘I will not lie to you. I will let you know what’s on my mind, and we’ll work through it.’

Crowley was quiet for a long moment. ‘I’ve never lived like that,’ he confessed.

Aziraphale shrugged. ‘We’re fast learners, you and I.’

‘Ok. Alright. Hell.’ A pause, then: ‘so, no marriage?’

Aziraphale laughed. A smile tugged at Crowley’s lips.

‘Think about it, my love. Ask me again someday. We’ve nothing but time.’

After a year, they renovated their cottage. Crowley added a greenhouse; Aziraphale, a neat little shed-library open to the villagers. His precious books were kept in London, in the bookshop, which he finally gave up any pretence of running as a business and instead hired an accomplished young archivist to preserve, maintain, and open, twice a month, to university students.

When he had the inclination, Aziraphale liked to spend a day in white-cotton gloves, carefully digitising the rarest of his collection. He then submitted these, anonymously, to the British Library, and rewarded himself with lunch at Nobu.

Crowley took to leisure better. He learnt to mix cocktails and developed mobile phone applications which earned them obscene amounts of money, despite Crowley’s gleeful intention to make them as ‘evil as possible.’

One of them just added different flower crowns to photographs.

Aziraphale was proud, confused and supportive in equal measure.

After two, they had Warlock stay with them for a long summer, and the boy seemed to flourish under the not-so-tender ministrations of the Them. His parents ignored and spoiled him in equal measure; the Them were the opposite, fond of him and impatient with entitlement.

It was the work of a small miracle to have the villagers accept Francis and Miss Ashtoreth for the summer. Adam and the Them were not so easily fooled, but they were also fairly used to Crowley’s occasional gender-bending, and were unphased by one of Adam’s uncles becoming ‘nanny’.

After three, they were married under an apple tree on the village green, with a gaggle of awkward teenagers as attendants and a hugely pregnant Anathema officiating. It was by no means legal, and by no means did anyone care.

They drank rose Dom Perignon with the toasts and cheap prosecco for the rest of the night. Mr and Mrs Young gifted them a breadmaker.

Heaven passive-aggressively sent them a plastic sword. Hell, a rubber duck.

Aziraphale placed both, proudly, on the mantelpiece.

Shortly thereafter, they were gifted with a goddaughter, Agnes Joy Pulsifer.

After four years, it became very clear that the eighteen-month-old Agnes had somehow inherited both her ancestresses’ affinity for magick and her male ancestors’ bone-deep clumsiness and bad luck.

And so, her parents moved back to Tadfield, in search of capable babysitters. Newt had grown up a great deal, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, the young man showed a remarkable ability to ignore Crowley’s barbs and listen to everything Crowley left unspoken.

The two became fast friends, and Crowley was relieved to have someone eager to sell his ‘software of malignant intent’.

Newt received 50% of profits from an app that let you pet virtual kittens. Aziraphale hadn’t thought that would be much, but apparently, humans were eager to spend their money on entirely fictional treats if it would stop an entirely fictional cat from looking sad.

Aziraphale, for his part, was fond of Anathema, and they developed a neat little working relationship whereby she would scry for, and retrieve, books he’d been coveting for centuries, and he would cover her travel expenses and babysit.

Agnes was a perfect little pickle, and he loved watching her learn.

She set things on fire less, he thought, when she was with him.

After five years, Adam surprised his parents by bringing home twelve A* GCSEs in his exams.

‘I’m going to be in charge, in a few years,’ he told Aziraphale over tea. ‘I’ve got to learn everything I can.’

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley walked into the kitchen and made straight for the biscuit barrel, kissing the top of Aziraphale’s head as he passed.

‘It used to bother me,’ Adam said. ‘Knowing I’d have to fix everything. Now, I just want to get started. Being a teenager lasts  _ forever. _ ’

Crowley folded himself onto Aziraphale’s lap and considered the young man thoughtfully.

‘There’s a reason humans take ages to cook,’ Crowley said, around a mouth of biscuit. ‘You learn from more than books. Don’t rush it, kid. You’ll miss it when it’s gone.’

‘How do you know?’ Adam asked, curious. ‘Were you ever a kid?’

Crowley shook his head. ‘Nah. We were made-to-measure. But we’ve watched humans since there first were humans.’

‘Mortality is a gift, Adam,’ Aziraphale said.

Crowley leant back and kissed the angel’s cheek.

‘I’ll say,’ he whispered, and Aziraphale fought a scarlet blush.

After six years, Agnes was made the proud big sister of a matched set of twin sisters, Myrtle and Mabel. Crowley brought home a hideous but affectionate Sphinx cat that their existing pair, Freddie and Brian, treated like a hot water bottle.

Crowley named the cat Weirdo and started an Instagram account for him.

After seven years, Adam burst into their kitchen with the news that he’d been accepted to study at Oxford, and held up his phone.

‘Warlock’s going too!’ the young man yelled, excitement alive in his eyes.

Aziraphale wrapped him in a hug. Adam wasn’t overly fond of physical affection, but for once, he let the angel hold him, and sighed in the way only an exhausted, stressed out teenager can.

‘Thank you,’ he said, against Aziraphale’s shoulder. ‘Both of you.’

‘Whatever for, dear boy? This is your achievement.’

Adam’s eyes glowed gold when he pulled back enough to look the angel in the eye. ‘I could have taken whatever I wanted. I could have ripped the world apart.’

Aziraphale stiffened. ‘Yes, you could have.’

‘You showed me a better way.’ Adam smiled. ‘I’ve got forever to explore my power. I only get one shot at being human. Properly human. With my mum and dad, and my friends, and the little Pulsifers.’

Crowley crept up behind them, and threw his arms around Adam, who laughed.

‘I-deserve-cuddles,’ Crowley growled.

‘Uncle Crow.’ Adam turned. ‘Did you hear?’

Crowley’s glasses were in a drawer somewhere. He rarely wore them around the house anymore, which meant that Aziraphale could see the deepening lines at his demon’s eyes, could see them crinkle with Crowley’s smile.

‘I did,’ Crowley said, and grabbed Adam by the shoulders, looking at him very seriously. ‘You and I need to have a talk about what Oxford boys do with pigs.’

‘ _ Crowley _ ,’ Aziraphale moaned, but the boys were laughing, and he couldn’t find it in him to be truly annoyed.

‘Always knew you’d be brilliant,’ Crowley said, more serious. ‘You get that from my side of the family.’

Adam rolled his eyes and smiled at Aziraphale. Sometimes, it was possible to imagine that Adam was an ordinary teenager.

Sometimes, like now, his eyes were old beyond comprehension.

Aziraphale’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he fought the strange urge to cry. ‘We’re so proud,’ he said, and Crowley rolled his eyes at the angel’s choked voice. ‘You’re so… so…’

‘He’s kind,’ Crowley said, simply. ‘That’s what you want to say, angel.’

Adam looked uncomfortable. ‘I have to work at it. A lot of the time, my first impulse is just to…  _ make _ people do what I want. Be what I want.’

‘And isn’t that miraculous?’ Aziraphale asked, one hand on Adam’s shoulder. ‘Isn’t that wonderful? It’s not easy, and you do it anyway, because it’s  _ kind _ and it  _ feels right _ . That might be the most human thing of all, my darling.’

Adam beamed. He looked over at Crowley, then back to Aziraphale. ‘I’m going to go tell Miss Mary down Appledean Farm.’

Aziraphale blinked and dropped his hands.

Neither he nor Crowley had seen Mary Smith in seven years.

Appledean Farm, after that first day when they’d retrieved Freddie and Brian, had simply ceased to exist.

‘Do you… see her often?’

Adam nodded. ‘I visit on Sundays, sometimes. Most of the time. She makes really good cake. She likes Pepper best, though, I think.’

‘That’s nice, dear,’ was all Aziraphale could manage.

When their kitchen door was banging shut with the momentum of Adam running down the street, pausing only for a wave at the end of the path, Crowley came up behind Aziraphale and put his arm around his shoulder.

‘She loves him, too,’ Aziraphale said. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t need to, angel,’ Crowley said, with the strange, savvy insight he’d perfected over the years of his mortality. Aziraphale suspected he’d always been this insightful, but had never been willing to vocalise such sentimental thoughts. ‘It’s ineffable. All of it.’

‘I know,’ Aziraphale sighed, and leant back, to press a kiss to his demon’s jaw.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

**Author's Note:**

> *Day One*: And God said: 'Let there be light.' And there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good.
> 
> *Day Two*: And God said: 'Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.' And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament; and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven.
> 
> PS: This fic is very nearly complete, so any feedback could find a home! :D


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